


tuesday's child, full of grace

by luminfears



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Birthday, Fluff and Angst, Missing Scene, Pre-Series, Prison, Season 1, except the thing that needs fixed is 3.75 years of prison time, personally i like to think of it as a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-07 13:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18621667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminfears/pseuds/luminfears
Summary: The meeting in the pilot episode when Neal proposed the idea of being Peter's CI wasn't the first time Peter visited Neal in prison.





	tuesday's child, full of grace

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't my first fic ever, but it is my first fic for this fandom. And I gotta say, I'm ecstatic at the prospect of continuing to write for White Collar. I think I've found my show. Rated T for one instance of crude indecent language.

**December 2005**

At least there was a library. Thank God for that; he could read all he wanted. Plus, there were these little word magnets sticking to the metal side of one of the shelves, and after that one day when he didn't check out a single book and instead spent the entirety of his library time rearranging the words into phrases, they'd given him his own set of magnets to have in his cell. The guards really weren't bad at all here, except maybe if you were a murderer or a rapist or something. But Neal wasn't in supermax for being violent, he was here for being really good at getting out of places where he didn't want to be. It was actually kind of flattering that they'd sent him here, if you thought about it.

When he'd asked about music, he'd been envisioning an mp3 player or something, not the clunky old cassette player they'd given him. No music, either, just 10 empty tapes. Neal had nearly burst with frustration, wondering if it was some kind of sick joke, but then. Then one of the nicer guards had asked him which songs he wanted to listen to, taken one of the tapes, and brought it back the next day with 15 songs that Neal had requested and three he had chosen himself. Bobby did the same thing once a week until Neal had 10 tapes. So there was music. He listened with headphones because they'd told him to, and while Neal lived to break the rules, he was pretty sure they'd take away his tapes if he played his music loud enough for anyone else on his block to hear. It wasn't worth the risk.

Books, magnets, and a few songs weren't enough to stave off boredom. Neal's first request on his first day had been for paper and something with which to sketch. They'd brought him a whole ream of printer paper, still sealed in its packaging, and so far they'd brought a refill every time he'd run out. The drawing utensils were a different story. He had a margarine tub of old crayons, wrappers missing from each one, that looked like it had been lifted directly from a kindergarten classroom. Frankly, it was insulting to his artistic skill, and as if that wasn't bad enough, crayons were a surprisingly difficult medium to manipulate. Still, Neal would die before he stopped drawing. So he made his sketches in Tickle Me Pink.

* * *

**March 2006**

Peter was angry at himself for coming here. He could think of a thousand more productive uses of his Tuesday afternoon, and worse yet, no one had told him to be here. If he had bothered to tell anyone where he was going to be, they more than likely would have urged him  _not_ to go, in fact. And he couldn't really explain even to himself why he chose to be here, in a prison visitation room, sitting across a table from one handcuffed Neal Caffrey.

"It's my birthday," Neal announced, a trademark con man smile plastered across his face. But his voice betrayed something hopeful and nearly giddy, and it struck Peter suddenly how young he was. Not in years- he was 28 today, after all- but in something hidden beneath the surface, and Peter wondered not for the first time about the childhood that was missing from his file on Neal Caffrey, wondered how much of that childhood was missing from Neal himself.

"I know it's your birthday," Peter growled. He felt a twinge of guilt coming on and quickly twisted it into anger. At himself again, because he shouldn't feel anything close to guilt about upholding justice; at Neal, for committing crime in the first place.

Peter's stomach dropped as he belatedly considered that if anyone decided to look too closely at Neal's visitor records, he wouldn't be able to explain why he was here on the convict's birthday. This wasn't like him. Peter Burke always thought things all the way through, always meticulously analyzed every aspect of a situation before jumping in. It was the worst kind of lapse in judgment, but he couldn't do anything about it now.

Peter considered that maybe he just missed the chase, but that wasn't it. There were other chases. He missed Caffrey and his wit and mischief, and that wasn't acceptable.

"Agent Burke?" Neal asked after a long moment of silence. "Why are you here?"

It jarred Peter enough to realize that since he had arrived here, they hadn't done much more than sit across from each other and stare. Neal sounded more curious than unnerved, though. Peter couldn't imagine what an unnerved Neal Caffrey would even look like. Still, he needed to wrap this up. He stood and pushed across the table the box he had been hiding in his lap, then headed for the door.

"Happy Birthday, Neal," he said on his way out. He felt Neal's eyes on him as he left, but he didn't look back.

* * *

 Neal looked down at the box on the table. It was a set of professional quality charcoal pencils.

He distantly heard Agent Burke in the hallway telling the guard that the visit was over. If Neal said thank you loudly enough, the agent would still hear him, but Peter had made it clear that he didn't want Neal to thank him. He stayed quiet until he heard footsteps retreating down the corridor, and then his chance was gone.

* * *

**March 2007**

Peter didn't visit on Neal's second birthday in prison. He did, however, send another set of pencils, the same brand as before but an expanded kit with more variety. There was no note, no mention of the birthday card Neal had sent in August.

Neal was finding more ways to occupy himself on the inside. It had only taken one afternoon for the librarian, Miles, to teach him how to admin the catalog. Neal prided himself on being a quick learner of anything he cared to learn. Since then, he'd spent most of his time in the library, working side by side with Miles. Neal enjoyed the other man's company. He told stories about being in the US Navy and talked about his wife, Rhoda, to whom he had been married for nearly 40 years. Neal respected honest men, even if and maybe because he couldn't be one himself.

* * *

**March 2008**

On Neal's third birthday in prison, nothing came for Neal from Peter. That was okay, though. Peter was a busy man. Neal would still send a card in August, just like he had the last two years.

It was still a good day. After two and a half years of weekly visits separated by a pane of tempered glass, Kate had sent an application to the parole board and managed to work out a contact visit. Not a family reunion visit- those weren't allowed in supermax- but still, a colossal improvement. Kate had scheduled it for his birthday as a present.

It wasn't like they could make out or anything, but he could hug her for a moment, and he could hold her hand. In fact, Neal didn't let go of Kate's hand for the entirety of their allotted 60 minutes. The presence of the guard breathing down their necks was a small price to pay for an hour of talking to Kate while holding her hand in his own. Not a bad day at all.

* * *

**March 2009**

Peter didn't send anything for Neal's 31st birthday, either. The agent had probably long since forgotten about him and the birthdays and the charcoal pencils.

Library hours had ended and the gym was closed, so Neal sat in his cell. He ran a hand over his face and felt the frizzy hair that had been growing there since Kate had told him that she was cutting him out. He had a plan to get her back, and part of that plan meant that he had been declining his nightly opportunity to shave. He hated it. Neal liked a little stubble, but he couldn't stand a full beard.

It was shaping up to be a very lonely birthday.

"Fuck you, Peter Burke," Neal said out loud. No one could hear him anyway. He was irrationally angry at the FBI agent, and not even for a good reason (Peter had put him away) but for a stupid one (Peter had stopped acknowledging his birthday.)

Neal would still send a card in August, though. From Peru or somewhere nice. Maybe Kate would sign it, too.

* * *

**May 2009**

The first day back at the office after Peter and Elizabeth's anniversary trip was a quiet one, a paperwork day. The drive home was quiet, too, which was unusual. Even with only a few work days behind Peter and Neal to set a precedent, a routine had already been established. Despite the longer summer days, the sun was going down or gone by the time Peter drove Neal back to his loft most nights. Peter would leave off the radio and they would exist in an easy, quiet darkness until Neal broke the silence with an anecdote or query. Peter would respond, and they would fall silent again for a moment until Neal jumped in with something else. Comfortable silence punctuated by fragmentary musings.

Tonight, though, Neal didn't seem to have anything to say. Peter figured he was being ignored for some reason, but he couldn't imagine why, unless Neal actually felt so immensely betrayed by today's introduction to the concept of paperwork that Peter was getting the silent treatment. On the other hand, Neal had his forehead turned and pressed against the window pane, which had to be cold. Maybe the CI had a fever or a bad headache.  Peter was perfectly content to let Neal be the initiator of their drive-home conversations, but he was the boss and illness affected work, so he asked not too gruffly, he hoped, "What's eating you?"

When Neal didn't answer at first, Peter thought that Neal was just going to ignore him. But after a moment, the younger man said without moving his head from the window, "You didn't send anything for my birthday this year."

Peter raised his eyebrows and resisted the urge to look away from the road. _That's_ what this was about?

"I haven't sent you anything for your birthday since 2007," Peter reminded him, a little incredulously. Why on earth was Neal bringing this up now?

Neal didn't give away anything else the rest of the way to his place. As Peter drove to his own home, he speculated on why Neal would even remember the two birthday gifts, much less be in such a pissy mood about it. Nothing came to mind. He thought about it while he asked El about her day, but again, he drew a blank. He dwelled on it for most of dinner to no avail. It wasn't until he and El were settled on the sofa and he was caught up in the theatrics of a made-for-tv dramedy, Neal Caffrey the furthest thing from his mind, that an epiphany popped in unannounced: Neal hadn't mentioned his 30th birthday, which Peter had also passed over- only his 31st. And Neal's 31st birthday would have fallen not so long after Kate broke up with him. Compound that with a prison cell, and the kid must have had a pretty crappy day.

Well, okay. That was Neal's own fault. If he hadn't committed any felonies, he could have spent his birthday wherever and however he wanted. Neal's birthday blues weren't Peter's responsibility. Peter knew that rationally, and that's what made the vague guilt he felt all the more irritating.

* * *

When Peter summoned Neal to his office with the patented two-finger point, he had hoped it meant that they had a case. He'd never had to do office paperwork before, and after only two days it was frying his brain. If not an investigation, then he assumed that Peter was going to chew him out for some perceived infraction. In any case, he wasn't expecting Peter to hand him a rectangular white cardboard box with no explanation.

"Help me out here, Peter. What is this?"

Peter looked up from where he'd already moved on to hastily shuffling around some papers on his desk and gave Neal a blank look. "It's birthday cake, leftover from one of El's events. You know, since I missed your big day."

Neal just stared at Peter for a second, processing that, and then fixed the agent with a triumphant smile. "I _knew_ it! You love me, Peter," he crooned, teasing.

"Get out of my office," Peter growled. He was still moving the paper into haphazard piles, appearing utterly disinterested.

"Did you ever have any other CIs who you gave a cake? I don't think so."

"Share some with Jones and Diana. They deserve it for tolerating you."

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was curious: by my calculations, Neal was a Tuesday baby (21 March 1978) making him "full of grace" (accurate.) But Peter would be a Sunday baby (25 August 1963, according to the show wiki site) meaning he's "fair and wise and good and gay." Heh.


End file.
